


Running Low on Know-how

by legendtripper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: And Is Also A Dad To Connor, But They've Known Each Other Awhile, Domestic Fluff, Elijah Is A Little Shit, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hank Is Just Tired, It's Like Their First Date, M/M, Sort Of, The Reed900 Is Really Only There If You Squint - Freeform, These Two Are Not Our Focus, it's just fluff y'all, like so much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendtripper/pseuds/legendtripper
Summary: "He crosses his arms, leaning back to meet Connor’s inquisitive gaze.“What, ain’t a guy just allowed to be happy?”Scoffing, Connor levels Hank with a wry stare.“Lieutenant, you and Ibothknow that it would take nothing short of a miracle to bring you to the precinct before two p.m., let alone sober. Orcheerful.” Connor says this last part with a disbelieving laugh, as if the mere thought of Hank behaving like a normal, functioning member of society is that strange.Okay, yeah, maybe it is, but in his defense, Hank actually has a good reason for being drunk off his ass ninety percent of his life."OR: The two most cynical bastards in Detroit have an evening of peace together.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Elijah Kamski, Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	Running Low on Know-how

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, huge shoutout to [wulfeyes08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wulfeyes08) for coming on this absolutely wild journey with me and fueling the headcanon flames of this ship. Second, another major shoutout to [salemforshort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salemforshort), my long-suffering beta reader, for putting up with my crackheaded two a.m. writing.
> 
> But honestly, thank y'all so much for reading. I know this ship isn't that popular, so if you take the time to read this, I love you.
> 
> Also, title is from "Heart Out" by The 1975.

Lieutenant Hank Anderson is not exactly known for his swaggering.

If you were to consult the bullpen at the D.P.D., descriptions of his movements would range from lumbering to downright aggressive, depending on who you asked. Known for his hulking stature and propensity for drinking far too early in the morning, the last thing Hank can be expected to do is muster up an ounce of charisma. For _any_ occasion. He’s cantankerous and moody, combativeness soothed only by the presence of his young, enthusiastic android partner, Connor.

So when Hank, well, _swaggers_ into the bullpen the morning of February 16, all heads turn to him. Because when was the last time Hank Anderson showed up before noon without specific instruction?

Looking as damn _happy_ as he does?

“Mornin’, everyone!” Hank addresses his coworkers with far more cheer than he usually thinks they deserve, but hey, he’s in a forgiving mood.

One woman near the back leans over to whisper something to the man at the desk next to her. If Hank isn’t mistaken, _remarkably large_ sums of cash are changing hands at an impressive rate.

 _Fuck_ all them, Hank’s allowed to be in a good mood, those little shits that reek of body odor and cheap sex be damned.

“Good morning, Lieutenant!” Ah yes, that’ll be Connor.

Hank turns to face the younger detective, shooting him a warm smile.

“Connor! How you doin’?”

Connor positively _glows_ , beaming up at Hank.

“Doing well,” he says, playfully nudging Hank’s shoulder with his own. “I have a good feeling about today.”

“Me too, kid. Me too.”

Chatting amiably, Connor and Hank make their way to their desks, discussing their latest case. Hank pointedly ignores the open-mouthed stares being thrown his way, preferring instead to run down the list of their new leads. He and Connor have been dealing with a nasty piece of work. In just two short days, what at first looked like a nasty revenge killing—Valentine’s day, woman’s throat cut by a spurned ex, pretty standard—turned out to be just the tip of an iceberg of fuckery, both of the literal and figurative variety. Months old cases had shared weirdly specific details with the murder or Lena Rowland, and it looked like many of Hank’s previous jobs were really just part of one big drug ring; the symptom, not the disease.

Under most circumstances, Hank would be inclined to believe he and Connor were both royally fucked to the highest degree, but, as it stands, a new lead has come in that morning and Connor has a solid idea of how to proceed.

Detective work at its finest.

Hank unceremoniously flops into his chair, momentum of his fall forcing him backwards. The corner of Connor’s mouth quirks up as he wheels his own chair over to Hank’s desk, rapping his knuckles on the plastic in a manner not dissimilar to the way he plays with that coin of his.

“So,” Connor says, carefully avoiding Hank’s eyes. “You seem to be unusually chipper today. Any particular reason why that is?”

“Who wants to know?” Hank retorts, raising an eyebrow. “Did Reed put you up to this? Because you can tell that dickweed to fuck right off—”

“I’m afraid not, Lieutenant. Merely my own curiosity.”

Hank is unconvinced.

“Uh-huh.”

Connor blinks at him innocently. The silence between them is a classic interrogation technique, Hank knows it, but there’s a _reason_ it’s a classic. A silence demands to be filled. And Hank is compelled to fill it.

He crosses his arms, leaning back to meet Connor’s inquisitive gaze.

“What, ain’t a guy just allowed to be happy?”

Scoffing, Connor levels Hank with a wry stare.

“Lieutenant, you and I _both_ know that it would take nothing short of a miracle to bring you to the precinct before two p.m., let alone sober. Or _cheerful_.” Connor says this last part with a disbelieving laugh, as if the mere thought of Hank behaving like a normal, functioning member of society is that strange.

Okay, yeah, maybe it is, but in his defense, Hank actually has a good reason for being drunk off his ass ninety percent of his life.

Hank rolls his eyes, reaching for a half-empty mug of tepid coffee balanced precariously on the edge of a stack of papers.

“You really wanna know, huh?” He means it as a joke, a rhetorical jab to get Connor to drop it.

He honestly should’ve known better, because Connor’s face lights up instantly.

“I would like nothing more, Hank.”

Taking a whiff of the coffee—which smells God awful, much to no one’s surprise—Hank debates how much he should say. Hell, half the bullpen’s probably listening in, those nosy little bastards, especially after the shock of his nine o’clock entrance. Who _knows_ what they’d do with the bombshell he’s about to drop.

“You know what,” Hank says slowly, pecking at his keyboard to pull up a case file, “I’ll tell ya later.”

“Why not now?” Connor leans in closer, casting a furtive glance around the station. “Is something wrong?”

Hank waves him off.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ , necessarily, I just—” He sighs. “I just don’t want these guys to have exclusive access to my personal life, capiche?”

Connor nods. “I understand.” And then he smiles softly, a private one reserved for these quiet moments between them. “And I eagerly await when you’re ready to tell me.”

“'Course you do.”

“Hank! My office, now!”

Shit. _Fowler_.

“The fuck does he want?” Hank grumbles, hauling himself out of his chair. Connor furrows his brow.

“I’m worried he may have news concerning our case.”

“Oh yeah?” Hank shrugs his jacket on, removing his hair from under the collar. _He really should get a trim. Or maybe a ponytail holder…_ “What kind of news?”

“I fear the FBI may desire to intervene.”

“God, I hope not. The last thing I need is Perkins ridin’ my ass for the next month.”

“I can only hope we’ll be so lucky.”

Hank scrunches his face up. “What’re you saying?”

“Hank! Now!”

Hank throws a sympathetic look in Connor’s direction before picking his way across the labyrinth that is the bullpen, dodging the corners of desks, a stray swivel chair, and unfortunately placed trash cans.

“Ooh, someone’s in trouble!” _Fuckin’ hell_.

To his left, Gavin Reed—detective, cat dad, and all-around asshole, as well as Hank’s worst enemy, at least in the bullpen—is leaning back at his desk, muddied Timberlands kicked up on its surface in the most blatant disregard of decorum he can manage without it constituting an HR violation. Bastard probably thinks it makes him look cool, when all it really does is make him look like the _biggest_ douche in the office.

“Go fuck yourself, Reed!” Hank replies, flipping him off without a second thought.

“With pleasure!” Gavin blows Hank a kiss, wearing his best shit-eating grin. Next to him, the D.P.D.’s most recent addition, the RK900 android—Connor’s intended “replacement” and Gavin’s newest partner, a prospect that most definitely brings out Hank’s schadenfreude streak—gently swats the younger detective’s shoulder, calmly reprimanding him. The married couple energy between them is _strong_. Hank knows it’s only a matter of time before they pull their heads out of their asses and admit exactly how gay they are for each other.

Despite the death sentence awaiting him up a too-short flight of steps, Hank smirks.

Finally, _finally_ , Gavin can get what he deserves. Months’ worth of pain and exasperation, and then maybe a little happiness at the end, because Hank isn’t a _total_ monster.

In the meantime… 

“Karma’s a bitch, ain’t it, Reed?”

“Fuck _off_!” His voice is muffled, and a quick peek reveals Gavin’s face is buried in his arms, the RK900 perched over him with concern.

“Beauty before age!” Hank calls back, opening the door to Fowler’s office.

Gavin’s head is off his desk in an instant.

“That’s not even the right—!” The rest of Gavin’s rant is cut off by the door closing behind Hank with a click.

Feeling particularly self-satisfied, Hank puts his hands on his hips and nods thoughtfully, watching Gavin burn out, and the RK900’s subsequent attempts to calm him down.

Behind him, Fowler coughs.

Hank holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, pulling out a seat for himself.

Fowler does _not_ look amused.

“Really, Hank?”

“You’ve known me for _years_ , Jeffrey, you should be used to this.”

Fowler sighs, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“You’re saying that I should _expect_ Detroit’s finest to behave like a bunch of toddlers? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Hank makes a noncommittal noise, and Fowler mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like _Lord, give me strength._

“Hank, you aren’t making this easy for me.”

“Oh, come on, that’s why you love me.”

“You are _trying my patience_ here.”

Kicking the table with his legs, Hank winks obnoxiously, much to Fowler’s chagrin.

“So, give it to me straight, Chief,” Hank says, noting the way Fowler groans at his word choice. “What am I in for?”

“You’re off the case.”

The news … isn’t surprising. Not really. Hank’s felt the FBI breathing down his neck for the past several weeks, and Connor, the bastard, had warned him something like this was bound to happen. No more than five minutes ago. Fucker was a damn psychic, occasionally. He supposes it makes sense. The case had been rapidly growing into something bigger than he or Connor could handle, old cases feeding the flame of one monster of a conspiracy, but it was nice to pretend he had _something_ under control in his goddamn life. Sooner or later, the feds were bound to get interested. He’d just hoped it would be, well … _later_.

It stings. Hank makes a note to tell the kid he was right.

“Understood,” he says wearily, grimacing at Fowler. His boss winces, and though he doesn’t vocalize anything, Hank can sense the apology under all the stoicism. Their relationship is anything but friendly, but being former classmates does have its perks.

For one, having an ounce of empathy when the feds swipe three months of your life out from under your nose.

And, more importantly, _better blackmail_. Though Connor frowns upon using their shared history as a weapon for personal gain, Hank has no problem digging up old dirt to get Fowler to work with him. The kid’s more tightly wound than a corkscrew. To be minimally fair to his new android partner, however, Hank _has_ started doing it less. Sort of.

Like, a little.

“I’ll send you the paperwork,” Fowler says, fidgeting with the heavy black stapler on his desk that Hank secretly suspects has been used to inflict bodily harm on hapless new hires. “Good work, Anderson.”

“Yeah, can’t have been too good, otherwise we woulda _caught_ the damn guy by now,” Hank huffs.

Fowler frowns. “I know, Hank. This case turned out to be bigger than any of us were expecting.”

There’s a moment of silence where it almost looks like the captain is going to say something more, but it passes uneventfully.

“You can head home early, just turn the papers in to me before you go,” Fowler says. “I’ll have something new for you tomorrow.”

“Gotcha.”

“I’m sorry, Hank.”

“Yeah. I am too.”

The glass door to Fowler’s office swings closed with the beep of an electronic lock. Hank pauses at the top of the stairs, running his hands through his three-days-without-a-proper-wash hair. Although this sort of thing is to be expected, the thought of Perkins, that slimy son of a bitch, taking control of his most recent venture in pride makes him want to vomit.

_Just fuckin’ perfect._

Gavin remains blessedly silent, though a quick look around the bullpen reveals he’s up and gone. Hank briefly wonders if he finally caved and snuck off with RK900 to get it on in a broom closet somewhere, but then he notices Gavin loitering by the coffee machine, chatting with Officer Chen.

Connor’s nowhere to be found, more than likely working on one of his own cases, and at this point, Hank can’t be bothered to find him before he heads back home. He’s just _tired_. All that hard work, flushed down the drain.

“Hey! Anderson!”

 _Jesus_ fuck.

Hank plasters fake excitement all over his face before turning to face the younger detective.

“Yes, Detective Reed?”

“Heard Perkins came to snatch the Rowland case from you.”

“Pretty sure the whole office heard, I was right there. You ain’t special, Reed.” Hank does _not_ have time for Gavin’s shit right now.

“You know, that sucks for you.” It almost sounds sympathetic. Where’s the rest of it? With Gavin, there’s always _the rest_.

“Guess they finally figured out your drunk ass wasn’t cut out for real work.”

Ah. There it is.

Despite his reservations, Hank draws himself up to his full height, glowering down at Gavin with all the sardonic power he can muster.

“Gavin, I’m really not in the mood for all this foreplay, so why don’t you run along to your android boyfriend, huh? Leave the big kids alone.”

Gavin chokes silently, sputtering for a moment before slowly turning back toward the bullpen, where Connor and RK900 are rounding the corner out of evidence, LEDs flickering rapidly, indicating an entirely nonverbal conversation; something that still gives Hank the heebie jeebies about the whole _android_ thing.

“... this isn’t over,” Gavin grumbles, trudging back to his desk. He flips Hank the double bird over his shoulder.

Hank raises a single wry eyebrow.

Moments later, Connor catches his eye across the bullpen and quietly excuses himself from his conversation with the RK900.

“Are you alright, Lieutenant?” he asks.

Hank smiles apologetically. “We got taken off the case, Connor.”

Connor’s face falls.

“I understand,” he says softly. “I wish I could say I hadn't foreseen this, but I’m afraid I saw it coming several weeks ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, kid, bragging rights for a month for you,” Hank quips, clapping Connor on the shoulder, who leans in to give Hank a quick hug. “Now come on, help me fill this shit out.”

Even on a good day, the hours drag by at a pace far too slow for Hank’s liking. His patience is forever wearing thin in this office. And it doesn’t help that Connor just keeps _looking_ at him, like he’s worried Hank’s going to self-destruct. He knows it’s only out of concern for his wellbeing, but sometimes Connor acts a bit _too_ much like a mother hen.

Hank is acutely aware of the attention he’s receiving, not only from Connor, but from everyone in the office. Pity and concern and a burning desire to pry mingle and blend and charge the air with an electric buzz that fills Hank’s head with static. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate. He can feel his hands trembling, the space pressing in around him, and the buzzing’s even louder now, and—

“Lieutenant, please look at me.” Connor’s straightforward tone snaps Hank out of his reverie. Hank blinks a few times, willing his mind to go back to normal.

Connor’s hands are on his face. _When did that happen?_

“Lieutenant, I need you to take some deep breaths. Please look at me.”

Hank forces himself to peel his gaze away from the files in his hands and meets Connor’s deep brown eyes, currently blown wide with apprehension. Gripping the edges of his seat, Hank steadies himself, keeping his sight trained on Connor while he takes big gulping breaths. Connor smiles reassuringly, tentatively moving his palm away from Hank's cheek to take Hank’s hand in his own. He presses two fingers to Hank’s wrist, brow furrowing slightly.

“What’s the news, doc?” Hank says, laughing weakly.

“You seem to be on the verge of a panic attack. Maybe we should take a break?”

Hank double checks the clock mounted on the wall.

A break’s probably not a bad idea.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “yeah, that sounds good.”

Hank dutifully allows himself to be guided to the breakroom, which is blessedly empty of any of his coworkers. While Hank situates himself on one of the benches by the wall, Connor pours a small glass of water and passes it to him.

“Drink this, it’ll help calm you down.”

Hank gratefully accepts the water and takes small sips, uncomfortably aware of Connor’s nervous energy. He’s practically vibrating, pacing around the room and throwing worried glances Hank’s way.

“Could you sit down? You’re making me nauseous.” Hank doesn’t mean to sound so angry, but Connor still averts his eyes as though he’s been scolded.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” he says, taking a seat to Hank’s right, hands folded neatly in his lap.

The bustle of the bullpen is muffled, here, and Hank revels in the fact that he’s actually free from Gavin’s _ranting_ , or Fowler’s _lecturing_ , or the judgment of most of his coworkers. The breakroom is, well, just that. A place to decompress.

Beside him, Connor’s left hand twitches intermittently. It’s almost imperceptible, but with the rest of Connor’s body as still as it is, the minor tremor stands out.

“I’m okay, Connor, really,” Hank says, doing his best to sound convincing.

Connor doesn’t seem to hear him. His hand is still shaking.

 _The coin_.

Hank smiles fondly. He always loved that coin, in certain circumstances at any rate. A subtle reminder of all the things Connor is capable of.

“Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” There’s genuine relief written all over Connor as he retrieves a quarter from his pocket, making it dance over his knuckles, between fine-boned fingers as strong as steel.

A comfortable silence fills the breakroom, interrupted only by the occasional metallic ringing of Connor deftly passing the quarter between his hands. _It’s nice_ , Hank muses, watching the way his partner dedicates his attention to the coin. _I like this_.

But then Connor’s words from earlier echo in Hank’s mind, and a thought occurs to him.

“You can drop the whole ‘Lieutenant’ thing, you know.”

Connor catches the coin in his right hand, slowly replacing it in his pocket.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know,” Hank says, gesturing vaguely with his glass, “the … ‘Good morning, Lieutenant,’ ‘Of course, Lieutenant,’ all that crap. I ain’t your boss, Connor.”

“But you are!” Connor protests, LED flaring an accusatory red. “You are my superior, this is the workplace, it is only fair I show you the respect you deserve.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, Connor, I really do, but you and I both know that’s bullshit.”

“Lieutenant, I—”

And maybe it’s the case, or maybe it’s months of built up frustration, but Hank just _snaps_.

“There it is again! You just do this— this _thing_ and I know you think you’re being kind, but Connor, you're _not_. I’m _not_ your superior, or your _boss_ , or _anything_ like that. We’re _partners_ , okay? Partners. _Equal_. Got it? So drop all your _shit_ and start treating me like a fucking _person_ and not someone to be afraid of.”

The tension in the room is palpable, so highly charged Hank’s every nerve sings in harmony. Blood pounds in his ears. Connor doesn’t even have the decency to look mildly nonplussed, aside from the red light blinking violently on his temple. He merely tilts his head an infinitesimal amount to the left.

And just like that, all the fight drains out of Hank, dissipating into the air.

“I’m sorry, Connor,” he breathes, leaning his head back against the wall with a soft _thud._ “I’m just— this case, it— I, _we_ , were finally _getting_ somewhere and then goddamn _Perkins_ had to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong, and maybe it’s stupid but today was supposed to be a _good_ day, and now you— God, I don’t even know, Connor, I … I’m not ...” Hank rubs his face with his hands. “I’m only gonna say this once, so you’d better be paying attention.”

Connor nods, just once.

Hank, in turn, takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Connor, I need you to get this through your stupid metal skull. You are _family_. Okay? Nothing less.”

“I understand, Lieu—” Connor sucks in a breath, cutting his slip up short. “... Hank. I do.”

“But you _don’t_ , Connor. And it was stupid of me to expect you to.”

Hank settles against the wall, looking at his hands, his shoes, anywhere but his partner’s face. _Did the breakroom always have that color of tile?_

A gentle hand finds its place at Hank’s elbow. It’s Connor, small smile playing over his lips, running his thumb across the fabric of Hank’s jacket.

“Then tell me.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“You said I wouldn’t understand, so …” Connor removes his hand from Hank’s arm, placing it instead in Hank’s palm, delicately interlacing their fingers as he brings Hank’s hand to his chest. “Tell me.”

Hank snorts, rolling his eyes. “What is there to tell? I’m just a fucked up man with fucked up problems getting fucked seven ways to Sunday by a fucked up world.”

Though Connor wrinkles his nose at Hank’s particular description, there’s real empathy in his voice when he says, “How about you start by telling me whatever it was you were going to tell me earlier?”

“What, and rub salt in the wound? Fuck that noise.”

“Perhaps thinking of something positive will help. Besides, I can’t deny, I’ve been wondering what it could be all morning.”

“‘Course you have.”

Connor grins.

 _Ah. What the hell_.

“I … have a date tonight.”

The way Connor’s jaw drops is almost worth all the shit Hank’s been through today. _Almost_. His mouth opens several times, half-formed sentences dying on his tongue.

“What, did you blow a fuse up there?”

Connor’s jaw snaps shut.

“That’s not really how that works, you know.”

“I know, kid. But you shoulda seen your _face_. Priceless.”

“Oh, I’m certain it was.” Connor crosses his arms defiantly. “The programming in my optical units alone is worth more than this whole building.”

“Look at you! My boy’s getting sarcastic!” Hank mimes wiping away a tear. “I’m so proud.”

“I learned from the best!” Connor says, knocking his knee against Hank’s. “But back to the matter at hand, a date? I wasn’t aware you were, well …”

“Back in the game? To be honest it was … sort of an accident.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Hank says, eyes crinkling with mirth. “He’s uh … he’s really something.”

Connor blinks, shock plain to see.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but ‘he’?”

“Don’t tell me CyberLife’s very own boy wonder is homophobic, it’s 2039.”

“My apologies, Hank. It’s just, your file indicates you had an ex-wife.”

“You ever heard of _bisexuality_ , Connor? Look it up.” Hank is under the distinct impression that Connor _is_ actually Googling it, or whatever the android equivalent is. _Is it even Googling if it’s inside your own brain?_ A moment later, Connor’s eyes refocus.

“Who is this mystery man, then?”

“If I told you, would it really be a mystery?” Hank teases, ruffling Connor’s hair. “Now come on, kid. Duty calls.”

“What duty?”

“ _Mountains_ of paperwork. Or did your memory files from this morning get wiped?”

“Ha ha,” Connor intones, offering Hank a hand to help him off the bench. “Perhaps I would rather forget.”

“You and me both, Connor.”

Connor’s right. He does feel better.

Though today certainly hasn’t turned out as good as he would have liked.

If the time went by slowly before, the hours drip from the clock like molasses now. Four o’clock _cannot_ come fast enough.

Hank’s pretty sure the words on the pages are blurring together. He hopes whoever invented the term “triplicate” is rotting in the pits of bureaucracy hell.

Across the aisle from him, Connor is sitting, still as a statue, eyes closed and LED flickering yellow. He’s processing, more than likely working on a case of his own.

Hank has a fucking headache.

The clock on his desk reads 3:47, and he figures he can safely call it a day. He stuffs the papers into a manila folder, dropping it on Fowler’s doorstep without bothering to open the door, before stopping by the bathroom before he heads out.

 _Thank God this day is over_.

“Well, look who decided to do his job for once.”

“You’ve gotta be _fucking_ kidding me.”

It’s Gavin _motherfucking_ (though maybe “androidfucking” is a more apt term here) Reed, perched against the bathroom counter.

“What? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“Piss off, Reed.”

“How eloquent! Your vocabulary truly astounds me.”

“Reed, I have had a godawful day, so if you wanna walk out of here with just the _one_ scar, you’re going to _shut the fuck up right now_.”

Gavin chuckles, absentmindedly bringing his thumb up to the bridge of his nose. “So the dog’s got some bark, huh?” He leans in closer, jabbing Hank’s chest with his index finger. “You got a bite to match?”

Hank wants to punch that smug fucker in the face. He really, _really_ does. But he’s exhausted. And he sure as _hell_ isn’t giving Gavin the satisfaction of reporting another infraction to Fowler.

“Goodnight, Reed,” Hank says, turning on his heel and marching out the door.

He doesn’t even look back to see the expression on Gavin’s face.

Returning to his desk, Hank sets about tidying it up a little before he goes, rounding up the coffee mugs, stacking files, and turning off his computer. When he returns from the breakroom, having washed the coffee sludge from the bottoms of his mugs, Connor looks up from his work.

“Are you going home?” Connor’s eyes flick up to the exit sign over Hank’s head, before meeting his gaze again.

“To get drunk, hopefully.” Hank zips up his jacket a little harder than strictly necessary, and Connor must notice the mood change.

“Did something happen?”

“You could say that.”

Connor purses his lips. “Reed?”

“It’s always Reed.”

The android makes a face that almost shocks Hank out of misery. It reminds him all too much of a toddler whose mouth had just made close friends with a lemon, crinkled and comically screwed up.

It’s remarkably human.

“Listen, Connor, I’ll be fine,” Hank says eventually, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “See you at home?”

“See you at home,” Connor agrees, “though I may be a bit on the late side.”

“That’s fine.” Hank reaches out and pulls Connor in for a hug, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Enjoy your date,” Connor whispers.

“Thanks kid. Might call it off, though. Not really up to a night on the town, you know?”

“I think I do, yes.”

“Knew you would.”

And then he’s off, stepping into the chill February air.

Hank’s parked near the back of the lot—he had shitty luck this morning, three people had somehow taken up six parking spaces—and he’s certain his jacket will be soaked through by the time he makes it to his car. The snow is coming down in thick white sheets, coating the ground in a fine, white, and worryingly slushy powder. He debates waiting it out, before remembering the storm is supposed to drag on well into the night. And, of course, _staying_ means having to deal with a pissy Gavin and a disappointed Fowler.

 _Yeah._ _No_ fuckin’ _way._

Well, better now than four a.m.

Hank reaches into his pocket to click the key fob, and after a couple tries, the car’s headlights blink merrily. He wrestles with the door handle for longer than he’d care to admit, but his fingers are numb and the car is coated in a thin layer of frost. Another police officer Hank barely recognizes gives him a _look_ and Hank just waves awkwardly, before finally yanking the driver’s side door open.

Right into the side of the truck he’s parked next to.

“Shit!” he growls, inspecting the damage in the rapidly decreasing visibility. From the looks of it, his car is mostly unharmed, except for a faint scratch near the seam of the door and car, which honestly isn’t terrible.

The _other_ car, however…

A massive dent is glaringly obvious on the passenger’s side, a concavity that may as well be as deep as the Marianas Trench for all Hank can see. He groans, long and loud, tilting his head back to glare accusingly at the sky.

No matter how hard he wishes, the dent does not go away.

Grumbling, Hank fishes around in the glove compartment for a pen and a sheet of paper and reluctantly scribbles an apology note and his information. That shit’s gonna hurt his bank account, but at least Connor won’t hound him about the benefits of being a morally upstanding citizen now.

“Really don’t make ‘em like they used to, huh,” he muses, tucking the paper under the truck’s windshield wiper. The sleek black model came out only a few short years ago, as opposed to Hank’s old Cutlass, though it’s difficult to tell if the truck itself is flimsy or if Hank’s car is just a fucking tank.

He’s willing to bet it’s more the latter.

Either way, he’s gonna have one hell of an insurance bill.

Giving the truck a last once-over, Hank deems his responsibilities complete and clambers into the driver’s seat of his own car. He reaches for the heating knob, before the unpleasant realization hits him; the Cutlass’s temperature controls have been on the fritz for a week. Something about Connor trying to interface with the outdated tech and overloading its circuitry. Or some other technobabble bullshit Hank doesn’t have the patience for.

All he cares about is that he’s sopping wet, sitting in a frozen car, in the middle of a snowstorm, with no way to warm himself up. And he’s just lost his big case.

“This damn car somehow got colder than Connor’s fuckin’ _feet_ ,” Hank snaps, reaching for his jury-rigged aux cord. “What a perfect ending to a shittacular day.”

He rams the cord into his phone.

“Some music. That’s what we need,” Hank mutters, scrolling through his playlists. If he’s gonna die in some icy collision, he’s going out to heavy metal anthems. Or on a call, cancelling his date.

And then his phone dies.

“Perfect,” he growls. “Just fucking _perfect_.”

He slams his head down on the horn, letting it cut through the cool night air—well, _night_ as in four p.m., Michigan winters are mostly comprised of _night_ —for a few seconds. It doesn’t do much, but it _is_ surprisingly cathartic.

“I have a date with Elijah _fuckin’_ Kamski tonight,” Hank grumbles. “Which I can’t even _cancel_ properly because my piece of shit phone crapped out on me. I’m gonna fuckin’ _die_ out here because the universe is _cold and unfeeling_ and doesn’t want me to have a smidgen of happiness. _Apparently_.”

He wishes he could call Elijah, tell him about all the shit that went wrong that day, or even just to let him know to skip coming to pick him up. But he can’t.

It’s just a terrible, horrible, endless feedback loop of _garbage_. Actual, festering _garbage_.

“Eli, forgive me,” Hank mumbles, adjusting his mirrors. He revvs the engine and peals out onto the main street.

The best and worst part about the innovations of the future is the self-driving cars. Great for everyone else on the road, absolutely batshit terrifying for people like him, who still drive manually.

Hank grits his teeth the whole way home, wrestling with the uncooperative steering wheel as he combats black ice and a near impenetrable wall of fluffy white death. He doesn’t even have the appropriate soundtrack for a dramatic crash scene.

If he makes it home, he’s getting _wasted_ , Fowler be damned.

Twenty nightmarish minutes later, he’s pulling into the driveway, every muscle sore from being clenched so tightly. Faintly, Hank can hear Sumo barking.

“I’m coming, boy,” he says, mainly to himself, grabbing his phone and keys.

To put the nail in the figurative coffin, Hank nearly loses his house key on the doorstep. His shaking fingers relinquish their hold, and in the dark and snow, he can’t see where they’ve gone. It takes him nearly ten minutes of inching closer to hypothermia to finally push inside.

The door swings open with a bang, and a moment later, Sumo rears up, pawing at his chest and barking.

Hank pats his dog’s head.

“Glad to know _someone’s_ still happy to see me,” he says, gingerly extricating himself from Sumo’s affections. “Come on, let’s get you some dinner.”

Sumo wags his tail, panting quietly as he follows Hank into the kitchen. One bowl of kibble and a water top-up later, Hank is more ready than ever to be free of his clothes, which are thoroughly soaked.

Popping his phone on the charger, Hank peels his damp clothes off and chucks them in the hamper, setting about finding his _good_ sweatpants. He deserves that, at the very least.

After the day he’s had, all Hank wants to do is sit on the couch under a few blankets, sipping on a cold beer (though he’d much prefer his usual Black Lamb, he’d run out a couple days ago, just another inconvenience on top of all the others) and watching the Gears game he missed that weekend. The perfect night in. _If only Connor were here to share it with him._

Retrieving a beer from the fridge (Connor had purchased a case for Hank’s birthday from some microbrewery in northern Michigan, apparently it’s supposed to be good), Hank settles into his usual spot on the couch, stretching his legs out and burying himself under the fuzziest blanket he owns. The familiar sounds of the Gears game, commentary and crowds and all, wash over him, and finally, _finally_ , Hank’s heart rate begins to slow.

There’s a knock at the door.

“The fuck?” he grumbles, setting aside the beer (which tastes like glorified piss, if he’s being honest) to look through the peephole. He wishes he hadn’t left his holster in the bedroom.

“Please let it be Connor,” Hank mutters, pressing his face to the door.

 _Fuck him running, it’s Elijah_.

Here he is, the man of his—admittedly, recent—dreams, dressed to the nines, holding _flowers_ for fuck’s sake, on his doorstep. And Hank’s in a ratty D.P.D. hoodie and his highschool track team sweats.

Against all his better judgment, he opens the door.

“Hey,” Hank says, voice gravelly. Elijah takes a small step back. “Sorry about the, uh …” He waves vaguely in the direction of his living room. “Um … do you wanna come in? You’re gonna freeze.”

Elijah nods, brows furrowed, before stepping across the threshold. He takes in the rather disastrous state of Hank’s house silently, and Hank worries he’s one wrong move from driving Elijah off.

He’s about to apologize for forgetting to call when Elijah cuts him off.

“Are you doing alright, Hank?”

Wow, that is _not_ the question Hank was expecting.

He blinks. “I mean … no, not … not really.”

“I figured as much.”

“Ouch.”

“My apologies, that came out rather harshly. I just meant, well ... I called, and you didn’t answer, and what with the snow and everything … I was worried.” And he looks it. Shifting eyes, trembling fingers, the textbook example of panic. So he _was_ worried. About _Hank_.

“Oh.” Hank’s surprisingly touched. “I’m … I’m sorry, my, uh, my phone died.” He indicates where the offending device is plugged into the wall. “I was gonna call you, but, um.”

“It’s fine, Hank, really.” Elijah runs his fingers over the arm of the couch. “I was just …” He pauses, mulling something over and then clearly deciding against it, whatever _it_ was.

“I’m really sorry, Elijah, I just had a … pretty shit day at work?” Hank scratches his neck. “Maybe we can reschedule, I don’t think it would be good for me to go out right now.”

“That’s completely understandable.” Elijah taps his chin thoughtfully, before an unexpected grin spreads across his face. “I’ve got just the thing! You stay here, I’ve gotta go pick some stuff up.” With that, he drops the bouquet on Hank’s end table, bolting toward the door with such a ferocity that Sumo lets out a warning bark from somewhere deeper in the house.

“Wait, where are you going?” Hank calls out, reeling from the sudden tone shift.

“It’s a surprise! Wait for me, okay?”

“Elijah, what—” The slam of the front door renders the rest of his sentence moot. The house is too quiet now.

Hank stares out the front window, watching as Elijah speeds off into the night.

“Well, Sumo,” Hank says, curling up on the couch once more, “looks like it’s just you and me, bud.” Sumo _borfs_ quietly in response, curled up comfortably on his dog bed.

He’s not sure if Elijah’s coming back. He hopes he is, of course, but it seems unlikely, despite all implications otherwise. The Gears game can’t seem to hold his attention anymore.

Man, the last time Hank was this hung up about a guy was _2003_.

The minutes tick on, interminable, and around 5:15, Hank is convinced Elijah’s just given up on him. He wouldn’t blame him or anything, though it does kind of hurt.

But Hank’s a grown man and he can handle rejection. Even if it comes from a really smart, cute, unfairly sexy android inventor and overall genius who happens to care for Connor as much as he does.

Even then.

“Guess who’s gonna die alone, Sumo?” Hank says, beckoning for Sumo to join him on the couch. “It’s me. I’m gonna die alone.”

Sumo, unsurprisingly, does not offer a response. Hank rolls his eyes, scratching behind Sumo’s ears.

“At least I know you’ll never leave me.”

Well, until the _doorbell_ rings, apparently, because at that moment, Sumo leaps off the couch and bounds toward the foyer, barking excitedly. Hank has half a mind to comb his hair into something slightly presentable with his fingers before approaching the front door, apprehension settling like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

He doesn’t even bother to check the peephole, because at this time of night it’s gotta be either Connor or Elijah, both of whom are a welcome distraction from whatever depressive sweaty mess he’s worked himself into.

“Come in,” he grumbles, throwing the deadbolt and returning to his blanket nest.

His guest is surprisingly silent, offering no greeting, which is enough to pique Hank’s curiosity. He cranes his neck toward the entryway, and, well …

It’s Elijah, struggling under literal armloads of bags and fabric. There’s a bottle of some sort of liquor clenched in his teeth—guess that explains the lack of his usual chatter—and…

“Are you wearing _sweatpants_?” Hank asks incredulously. Elijah shrugs, nearly dislodging half the shit he’s carrying, which Hank darts forward to stabilize. Elijah looks at him gratefully, smiling as best he can around the bottle in his mouth. A bottle of … _Black Lamb Scotch Whiskey_.

Hank has to actively restrain himself from proposing on the spot.

“You can, uh … You can set all that over there,” Hank offers lamely, gesturing vaguely in the direction of his kitchen, though Elijah’s sigh of relief would lead most people to believe Hank had just told him his father survived a goddamn sinking ship. With that, he’s off, hastily freeing his arms of their mother lode, neatly arranging it on Hank’s dining room table.

“I think that’s everything,” Elijah says, mostly to himself, before turning to address Hank. “And _yes_ , I am wearing sweatpants.”

“And a _wine mom t-shirt_?”

“What?” Elijah looks down at his clothes, picking at the faded graphic tee. “Oh, yeah. Gag gift from my brother a few years back.”

“I take it your brother doesn’t like you very much,” Hank says dryly, noting the gaudy print and horrendously cliché catchphrase.

Elijah rolls his eyes. “Yeah, him and the rest of the world, practically. But what can I say, this thing is quite soft.”

“I’m sure,” Hank says, quirking a brow. “It’s just, you know. I’ve never seen you so …”

“Looking like a recently divorced PTA mom?”

“... I was just gonna say ‘ _relaxed_ ,’” Hank chuckles. 

“Yeah, well, not _that_ relaxed. My uh … my pants got soaked. I don’t suppose …” He almost looks embarrassed to finish the thought.

 _Who knew? The great Elijah Kamski has a_ sensitive _side!_

“Do you have a pair I can borrow?” he asks hesitantly, running a hand over his updo. “Never mind, sorry, that’s rather forward of me, you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine, Elijah. I’ve got some spares.” Hank pats his shoulder reassuringly. “If you’d like, I can throw that pair in the dryer for you.”

Elijah’s practically glowing. “You are a _lifesaver_ , my good man.”

Hank smiles softly.

“Let me get you that spare pair, yeah? Bathroom’s that way.”

A few minutes later, Elijah’s kitted up in a pair of Hank’s old D.P.D. sweats, drawstring pulled as tight as it’ll go. It’s, quite frankly, _adorable_ , though Hank suspects Elijah would slap him if he voiced that sentiment.

“Aw, look,” Elijah says, pointing at Hank’s hoodie. “We match.”

_Or maybe not!_

“That we do.”

Hank approaches the table, where Elijah is busy inspecting his haul. “What is all this, anyway?”

“Ah!” Elijah claps his hands together, placing them on Hank’s shoulders and steering him toward the couch. “This here is my master plan. Which you don’t _have_ to accept, by the way, feel free to tell me to fuck off at any time.”

“I’m worried you’d take that literally,” Hank quips.

“Oh, shut up,” Elijah snaps playfully, returning to the dining room space. “What I mean is, basically, it looked like you were in severe need of a night of relaxation, and while I would greatly appreciate you allowing me to join you, I completely understand if you’d prefer to spend tonight alone. I just …” He places his hands on his hips, frowning contemplatively. “I think it would be good for you to have someone to talk to. Besides Sumo, of course,” he adds. Sumo’s ears twitch slightly in recognition.

Hank is rendered nearly speechless.

“So … all this … is for me?”

Elijah grins. “More or less. Here. Put this on.”

A thick bundle of black fabric collides solidly with Hank’s face. He sputters, searching for the edges of whatever it is to pull it off, feeling sort of like a drowning man, except it’s _fabric_ , not an ocean, or a lake, or whatever it is people drown in these days.

It’s … a robe. Soft silk, simple and understated design, with delicate embroidery on the collar that blends into the background. Reminds him of the one Elijah wore when they first met at the pool, but this one looks to be brand new. The tag’s still on it, even, price carefully blacked out.

“I … thank you, Elijah, I …” He trails off. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Well, nothing yet, pretty boy, we’ve got a lot left to go through and I’d hate for you to run out of platitudes too early.”

“Fuck you, Eli, I’ll say whatever the hell I want.”

“I know! It’s just one of your many charms, darling.”

Hank’s pretty sure his brain just short-circuited.

“Please do put the robe on, we can’t start the evening properly without it. I hope I got your proper size...”

Hank doesn’t need to be told twice. The robe is just about the comfiest thing he owns. And despite its relatively recent acquisition time, it already smells like Elijah’s cologne.

He loves it.

“Well?” Hank says, throwing his arms wide to show off his new threads. Elijah wolf-whistles appreciatively, clapping like his life depends on it.

“Give us a twirl?” he says, winking, and Hank nearly has a heart attack right then and there, but he’s beaming and blushing all the same as he spins around his living room with a ridiculous flourish. Elijah’s whoops are deafening, and Sumo’s barking now too, and it’s all _totally_ worth it.

Hank can’t remember the last time he felt this good.

“Bravo, darling!” Elijah cheers, fixing his attention on the table of _stuff_ again. “Now, before we dive into the rest of the evening, I think we both need a good meal in us, yes?”

Wracking his brain for ideas, Hank comes up basically empty. He’d been meaning to do a grocery run for a few days, just hadn’t ever gotten around to it, especially with the case taking up most of his free time. The case he’s no longer working. That one.

“I mean, I got, like, pizzas in the freezer?”

Elijah’s hand flies to his chest in mock offense. “Hank! You wound me! You think I didn’t prepare for this?” With a devilish smirk, Elijah holds up two paper bags.

“The Chicken Feed,” Hank breathes. “How did you—”

“Family secret, Hank.”

“Cut the crap, Elijah, _how_.”

“I … may have asked Chloe to track your purchase history,” Elijah admits sheepishly. “Sorry.”

Hank snorts. “No, it’s— Burgers are worth the security breach.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Elijah says. “Although, I must admit, I fail to see the appeal.”

“Fuck off, this shit’s delicious.”

Elijah’s clearly skeptical, but he relents, passing the bag to Hank.

“Your usual. Should still be warm, I got it last.”

Hank takes a whiff of the bag. “ _That’s_ the good shit,” he says emphatically.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Elijah quips, opening his own carryout bag. Looks like he’s got some sort of gourmet pizza from uptown.

“Any good?” Hank asks, gesturing with his burger toward Elijah’s artfully arranged dinner.

“Very.”

“Gimme some, then.”

“I paid for it!”

“You’re a fucking billionaire, give me the goddamn pizza, Kamski.”

" _Trillionaire_ , actually."

"Do I look like I give a shit? What _you_ need to do is _give me the pizza_."

“Fine! But only if you’re willing to relinquish a few of your fries.”

“You’re taking my fries hostage! You fucker!” Hank gasps. “Besides, I thought you ‘ _didn’t see the appeal_.’”

“Just because I don’t feel like doubling my cholesterol with your artery clogging burger doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate a few fries, _Anderson_.”

Hank stares him down for a moment, before finally relenting and tossing a handful of fries in Elijah’s direction. Elijah mumbles a quiet “two can play, Hank,” and then suddenly he’s frisbeeing a piece of pizza toward Hank’s lap. He just barely manages to catch it.

It’s honestly not bad.

They finish their meals over good conversation and even better alcohol. Elijah had cracked open the Black Lamb and poured them each a glass.

“To your happiness.”

Hank makes a face. “My _God_ that was cheesy.”

“You love it, though.”

“So what if I do?”

Elijah, continuing his saintly streak and racking up brownie points by the dozen in Hank’s mind, gathers their trash and wanders into the kitchen to dispose of it. Hank sips at his whiskey, feeling decidedly more at ease than he had been for most of the day.

“I guess they were right,” Elijah says from somewhere in the kitchen.

“About what?”

“The fastest way to a man’s heart really _is_ through his stomach.”

Hank lovingly flips him off over the kitchen counter.

Elijah blows him a kiss in return. “Well, now that that’s over, we can get to the fun part.”

“That wasn’t the fun part?” Hank asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course not!” Elijah exclaims, flailing his arms in the direction of the veritable mountain of _stuff_ still piled on the table. “We still have the rest of our spa date to go through!”

“Oh, so this is a spa date now?” Hank’s a little skeptical. He doesn’t _do_ spas. Or relaxation, really.

Elijah pauses where he’s shrugging on his own robe, pastel pink and covered in a branching floral pattern. “It’s _been_ a spa date, Hank.”

Hank blinks. “It has?”

“What did you _think_ the face masks were for?” Elijah drawls, snarkily holding up four foil packets like a poker player with his cards.

For the second time that night, Hank is rendered speechless. Elijah grins, running a finger over the masks before deftly making his selection. Approaching the couch, he holds out a hand for Hank to take, which he does, gratefully, allowing himself to be dragged off to the bathroom.

The bathroom is, well, a _mess_. If Hank had known so much of his evening would be taking place there, he would’ve made more of an effort to tidy it up a little. But no, all the grime and the random assortment of bottles and even his goddamn _motivational sticky notes_ are on display for all to see (he doesn’t care that “all” in this case means “Elijah,” because really, the judgment is the same no matter what), and there’s no point in trying to hide it. Fortunately enough, either Elijah doesn’t notice, or is too polite to comment.

Hank’s inclined to believe the latter.

Elijah makes short work of clearing the few styling products Hank had received at some office holiday party from the sink, replacing the containers with his own belongings.

Hank leans against the doorframe, arms crossed; observing. Elijah really is a very pretty man, all bold lines and clean edges, and he can’t quite believe it took him this long to really _get it._ They’ve known each other for almost two years, and he’s known _of_ him even longer, and yet only recently did Hank finally cave to Elijah’s offer to buy him a drink. Despite his initial suspicions—though, to be minimally fair to himself, the first time they met Elijah _had_ offered Connor a gun and asked him to murder an innocent girl, and he’d been a _total dick_ about it the whole time, too—they had sorta hit it off. Well, as in Hank wanted to get the hell out of the bar while Elijah talked his ear off. But he had this strange sort of magnetism about him, the kind you couldn’t really look away from once he drew you in. One drink turned into two, then four, then suddenly it was every weekend, and then it became clear it wasn’t really about the drinks anymore.

Elijah was certainly persistent when he set his mind to something.

“So,” Elijah says, surveying his work with a pleased expression, “here’s what I’m thinking.”

“Hit me with it.” Hank sounds much more enthusiastic than he really is, though it’s less out of an aversion to skincare in particular and more out of the sudden realization that Elijah’s _definitely_ going to have to touch his face and he’s not sure if he can handle that yet.

Elijah smiles softly. “If we’re going to do this spa date _right_ , face masks are an essential. I’ve brought one for myself from my personal collection, but I’ve purchased a few for you as well. Would you like to choose your own or would you rather I decide for you?”

“Eli, I’d have no fucking _clue_ where to start.”

“Perfectly understandable, I’m sure you’re busy. I take it you don’t have a regular skincare routine, then?”

Hank scoffs. “ _Fuck_ no.”

“You don’t have to act so disgusted!” Elijah says, lightly smacking Hank’s arm. “I just need to know what I’m working with. Would you mind facing me?”

Hank’s heart flutters in his chest. “Why?”

“I want to know what would suit your skin best,” Elijah says simply, as if Hank _isn’t_ moments away from spontaneous combustion. “So, if it’s alright with you … may I touch your face?”

“Uh.” Hank is painfully aware of how dumbfounded he must look, but at the same time, there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s kinda tipsy, being flirted with by a _very_ attractive genius, and this is really their first official date and he’s not quite sure what the rules are, so … _rA9 help him, he’s going to die_.

Just then, Elijah withdraws his hand. “Of course! How could I forget, we need to set the mood.”

“The … the mood?”

“Well, obviously, it’s not a spa experience without the proper backing track.”

“Oh God, you’re not gonna make me listen to any of that ‘zen garden’ shit, are you?”

Elijah looks up from where he’s frantically scrolling through his phone. “I mean, that’s kind of what I was thinking.”

“Please, no. I can’t stand that stuff.”

“Fine, fine,” Elijah says, throwing up his hands in surrender. “This is supposed to be your night. What would you prefer?”

It doesn’t match their evening plans _at all_ , but sue Hank, he’s curious.

“Got any metal on there?”

“... as in ‘aggressive guitar, growling vocals, we’re-all-angry-all-the-time’ metal?”

“Yes, that.”

Elijah worries his bottom lip with his perfectly white teeth (Hank suspects it’s a perk of the whole _rich boy_ thing). “I … may or may not have a playlist of my middle school metal, yes.”

“ _Perfect_.”

Huffing, Elijah connects his phone to a small speaker he must have brought with him.

“You asked for it.”

The erratic drumbeat of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus’s “Face Down” echoes around the small bathroom and that’s when Hank knows he’s in love. Like, completely, unironically, head over heels for this wild eccentric who’s currently bullying him into self-care.

They let the music wash over them for a moment, Hank unashamedly headbanging to the beat. Elijah smiles.

“Back to the matter at hand,” he says, breaking Hank’s reverie, “I still do need to take a look at your skin. Do you mind?”

With the music to distract him, Hank thinks he’ll be okay, so he nods.

 _Oh boy was he wrong_.

Because Elijah’s fingers are _so_ soft, and his touches are gentle and caring, methodically cataloguing the information Hank’s face yields with all the precision expected of a scientist. His eyes are focused intently on his task, and Hank finds himself fascinated by their pale blue color; almost translucent, but _piercing_ , ringed by dark circles. He swallows thickly, wondering how much longer Elijah’s prodding will last, and then it’s over.

Elijah nods, clearly satisfied, then plucks a packet out of the pile on the sink.

“This should do,” he says, tearing the top off the foil. “Unfold this and place it on your face. You should see where the eyeholes and such are.”

Hank gingerly accepts the proffered packet, handling the mask like a bomb in need of defusing. Elijah, noticing Hank’s struggles, pauses in the application of a thick black sludge to his own face to assist.

“Here,” he breathes, draping the mask over Hank’s face and adjusting it to his liking. “How does that feel?”

Hank frowns. “Sticky.”

“That’s how you know it’s working,” Elijah says, finishing up with whatever it is he was doing. “And now we wait.”

“For how long?”

“Twenty minutes, give or take.”

Hank’s jaw drops. “The fuck?”

“Hey, it takes time to look this good.” Elijah tosses his head with a haughty air. “And it’s certainly time enough to make a cup of tea.”

“Do I _look_ like someone who owns a kettle?”

“Do you have mugs?”

“I mean, yeah?”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“Did you bring your own kettle, Eli?”

Elijah at least has the decency to look embarrassed when he mumbles, “I … brought my own kettle.”

Hank rolls his eyes, clapping a hand on Elijah’s back to steer him toward the kitchen. “Well, let’s go. Time to make some fuckin’ tea.”

The tea is prepared in relative silence, Elijah busying himself with the kettle while Hank watches intently, resisting the urge to touch his mask. After the initial chill wears off, he does have to admit that it feels kind of pleasant. Refreshing. While he works, Elijah casts shy smiles in Hank’s direction, which Hank gladly returns, and the whole thing _reeks_ of a domesticity Hank hasn’t been privy to in _years_. Because he likes Elijah, the whole manic mess of him; his brilliant mind, the way he smiles like he knows a secret you don’t (to his credit, he probably does), his kindness when it matters.

Beautiful, cunning, dangerous, wonderful _Elijah_.

A mug is pressed into Hank’s hands, warm and smelling of something vaguely floral.

“Lavender tea,” Elijah nearly whispers, like he’s afraid to disturb the carefully cultivated peace filling the house. “It has a calming effect, it should help you sleep.”

Hank doesn’t even have a joke in him. Music still emanates from the bathroom, driving and insistent, but it’s a million miles away. Elijah Kamski is here, smiling up at Hank like there’s something worth looking at.

“Thank you, Elijah.”

The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, Elijah doing his best to suppress a grin.

“My pleasure.”

The tea is fucking _fantastic_.

When the time comes to remove the masks, all Hank has to do is pull his off and chuck it into the garbage can, rinsing his face with water, while Elijah’s is a whole operation in and of itself. The whole thing comes away from his face like a second skin. It looks quite painful, though Elijah actually seems to be enjoying himself, so Hank doesn’t mention it. Soon, the both of them are fresh faced and beaming.

“I’m gonna leave some of this stuff here for you,” Elijah says, indicating a few more masks and a couple glass bottles. “You don’t have to stick to this, if you don’t want to, I just thought, you know, you might want something to wind down with at the end of the day. If you’d like.” Elijah’s wringing his fingers, probably worried Hank will say no. As if he could ever say no to something like this.

“I mean, if you help me with it, I’ll try it, yeah?”

“I’d like that.”

“So, what else is left?”

“Well…” Elijah trails off, eyeing the living room. “I was kind of thinking we … watch a movie? And cuddle on the couch if you wanted? Which I don’t want you to feel obligated to do, of course, but I thought it might be nice—” Elijah’s arms are swinging in tight orbits next to his body, a sure sign that he’s stressing. Hank catches his wrists in his hands.

“Elijah, you’re my goddamn boyfriend, _of course we can cuddle_.”

“Oh! Okay. Uh … good.”

Hank squeezes Elijah’s wrist lightly. “Listen, you get set up. Pick the film, whatever you like. Some science documentary or some shit, I don’t care.”

“But—”

“ _I’m_ gonna go get blankets and another glass of whiskey. You want any?”

“Yes please,” Elijah sighs gratefully.

“Then get a move on!”

Elijah nods sharply, making himself at home on the couch after making a very important and necessary detour to scratch between Sumo’s ears. It warms Hank’s cold, dead heart. Just a little.

A few minutes later, Hank throws an armful of blankets at Elijah to protect against the mid-February chill, and also just maybe to get revenge for the bathrobe incident earlier. The way he shrieks is music to Hank’s ears.

“Hey, would ya scoot? This is my goddamn couch, the least you could do is let me lie on it properly.”

“My apologies, Hank,” Elijah says, standing to give Hank room to get comfortable while he flicks through the available streaming services. In that time, Sumo wanders over, licking Hank’s outstretched hand. Hank awards him with a gentle pat.

“You got somethin’?”

“I believe so.” Elijah delicately lowers himself to the couch, wary of sitting on Hank’s legs.

Hank is somewhat taken aback by Elijah’s selection.

“A rom-com? Really?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, just seems a little tacky for the great Elijah Kamski.”

“It’s David Tennant!”

“... okay, you know what? Fuck you.” Hank _loves_ David Tennant.

As it turns out, Elijah is a good and proper _cuddler_. Almost instantly, he snuggles into Hank’s front, burying himself beneath the blankets and manually maneuvering Hank’s arm over him. He doesn’t even touch his drink, just watches the movie with a fondness and nostalgia Hank can’t quite name. A few times, he looks back at Hank, gauging his reaction, and every time, Hank smiles back at him, rubbing small circles into his back with a free arm. Sumo even settles down in front of the couch with them, though he’s snoring within minutes.

It’s … it feels like _home_.

If he’s honest with himself, half of Hank’s brain, which is infuriatingly stuck in his teenage years, had assumed the movie would’ve turned into some sort of makeout session halfway through, but the whole evening is surprisingly chaste. He actually _enjoys_ the film, and he enjoys Elijah’s company, and the memories of the unpleasantness at the D.P.D. are nothing but a faint blur. Halfway through, Elijah excuses himself and comes back with his wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He indicates his contacts were at the end of their shift, and Hank just opens the blankets back up, beckoning Elijah back in. Elijah gleefully burrows into the nest almost immediately, resuming the movie.

He definitely totally does not cry at the end.

Absolutely not.

Elijah actually has to take his glasses off to avoid staining them.

“So,” he says once he’s had some time to dry his tears, “what did you think?”

And here, Hank spies his opportunity.

So he kisses Elijah, right then and there, and the angle is _terrible_ , and Elijah’s clearly unprepared, and Hank’s smiling too much for it to be an objectively _good_ kiss, but it’s _theirs_ , and that’s all that matters.

When Hank pulls away, Elijah is beaming. As if on some silent cue, they both sit up. Elijah’s hand flies to his updo, releasing the ponytail, and loose black curls tumble down.

Then his hand is on Hank’s neck, pulling him in for a second, then a third kiss, and Hank is all too happy to oblige.

“Thank you,” Hank mumbles against Elijah’s lips. “For everything.”

“I’d do it again, you know,” Elijah replies, running his fingers through Hank’s hair. “All of this, I’d do it again.”

Hank smiles, leaning back to take in Elijah’s face. Here, he’s not Elijah the genius, or Elijah the inventor, or even Elijah the hermit.

He’s just Elijah the person, and Hank is honored beyond comprehension to be allowed to see something so special.

“I know,” he says, leaning in one more time.

EPILOGUE: ABOUT A HALF HOUR LATER

Connor should really remind himself not to drink so much. Or accept a party invite from Gavin ever again. Even though androids can’t technically get _drunk_ , enough Thirium and their processors will begin to malfunction in a way that is remarkably similar to intoxication.

He’s rather dizzy when he steps out of the cab, just barely remembering to pay his fare.

There’s an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway.

Connor would scan, but his mind is too muddled for anything more than the most basic of processing functions, so instead, he puts himself on as high alert as he can manage, which honestly isn’t much, and shakily climbs the front steps.

“Hank?” Connor calls out, examining the front door, which has been uncharacteristically left unlocked. “Is everything alright?”

When no answer is forthcoming, Connor makes the executive decision to kick the door in. It hits the wall with a resounding _crack_ , and not one but _two_ male voices cry out in response.

“Hank, are you—”

 _Oh_.

There, on the couch, in his pajamas, is Hank. Not that unusual, Connor’s come home to a similar sight more times than he can count. What _is_ unusual is the presence of one Elijah Kamski—genius inventor, famous eccentric, former CEO of CyberLife—curled up on Hank’s chest, _also_ in his pajamas.

“Hey, Connor,” Kamski says, shooting him a lazy salute. Hank very deliberately avoids eye contact.

Connor stares at them for a moment, completely and utterly flabbergasted. _I mean, I knew Hank had a_ date _, but_ Kamski _?_ Him _? When did he have time to set all this up? How did he hide it so well from me? How did_ Kamski _hide it so well? How could I not have noticed? Wait, shit, they’re looking at me, what do I say, what—_

“What the fuck?”

“ _Language_ , Connor.”

“Leave him be, darling, he’s had a long night.”

“Ugh,” Hank grumbles. “Fine.”

Kamski smiles. “I do believe that’s my cue. Thank you for your hospitality. How does next Tuesday sound for a _proper_ night out?”

“I’ll have to check my schedule, but uh, sounds good.”

“Wonderful.” And with that, Kamski leans in to kiss Hank goodnight.

Connor’s jaw drops.

“What the _fuck_!?”

“ _Connor! Language!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed that! A couple things:
> 
> Yes, there is a rom-com starring David Tennant. I absolutely adore it, and I usually can't stand rom-coms. It's called "The Decoy Bride." Please watch it.
> 
> If you liked this, please check out my other stuff, or yell at me on [Tumblr](https://legendtripper.tumblr.com/) (@legendtripper) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/legendtripperb) (@legendtripperb), or read the Hamski series [wulfeyes08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wulfeyes08) is writing! She's a really good writer and I highly recommend.
> 
> Love y'all!


End file.
